“Whatever it is you’re struggling with,” she said. “He’s worth it.”
The final stop was the McCoy soybean farm, forty minutes in the opposite direction. The large, red SOLD sign at the entrance made Wes’s stomach twist.
Alvin met them in what had been the equipment barn, now mostly empty. He was older than Wes had expected, mid-seventies at least, with stooped shoulders and tired eyes.
“Jake. Nice to meet you in person, despite the circumstances.”
“Hi, Alvin. This is Wes Dalton. He runs Holiday Pines.”
“The Christmas tree farm?” Alvin nodded slowly. “I remember your father. Bought a tree from him years ago.”
“Yes, sir,” Wes answered, not really knowing what to say.
“Twenty years, maybe more.” Alvin gestured at the boxes stacked along the wall. “Amazing how fast time goes. One day, you’re thirty and building something. The next you’re seventy and watching it all fade away.”
“You didn’t have to sell,” Jake said gently.
“Didn’t I?” Alvin laughed hollowly. “I’m old, Jake. My kids live in California and don’t want anything to do with farming. My wife’s been begging me to retire and downsize for a decade. And I’m tired. Bone-deep—soul-deeptired.”
He led them through the barn, pointing out where equipment used to be, where his father had built additional storage, where his grandfather had started the whole operation.
“Four generations,” he said. “Ninety years of soybeans. Gone.”
“What happened?” Wes asked.
“Pride, mostly.” Alvin leaned against a post. “After my youngest son made it clear he wasn’t coming back, I should have started planning. I could have brought in a partner, could have transitioned slowly, could have done a dozen thingsdifferently. But I was stubborn. Thought I could do it all myself forever.”
He looked directly at Wes. “You know what the worst part is? It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. Each year got a little harder, I got a little more tired, and the debt got a little deeper. Like drowning slowly.”
“But Jake could have helped?—”
“By the time I called Jake, it was too late. I’d already given up in my heart.” Alvin’s eyes were wet. “The developer’s paying good money. My wife and I will be comfortable. But the land...”
He trailed off, looking out at the fields.
“If I could do it over,” he said finally, “I would have asked for help at fifty instead of seventy. I’d have considered options at sixty instead of refusing until I was seventy-three. I would have admitted what I know now—that needing help has nothing to do with pride.”
He turned to Wes. “You’re young. You’ve got time. Don’t be me, son. Don’t wake up at seventy with nothing but regret and a sold sign.”
The drive back to Spoon was quiet. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink. The radio played softly—more news, more weather, but Wes wasn’t really listening. His mind was churning through everything he’d seen, everything he’d heard. Diane nearly killing herself with self-imposed obligation. Sarah and Keith building something together. Alvin giving up.
Three visions—past, present, and future.
“You did that on purpose,” he said finally.
“Yes, I did.”
“The three farms. Like A Christmas Carol. And your last name is Marley. Did your parents really name you Jacob?”
“I never knew them. Seems like a joke, though, doesn’t it?”
“Or fate.”
They drove in silence for another mile, then Wes said, “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over. Please.”
